


The Pickpocket and the Peacock

by Nemainofthewater



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon typical backstory angst, Don’t copy to another site, Extra Treat, Gen, Pre-Canon, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 16:13:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21139499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: The first time she sees him is memorable. Not just because he’s by far the most colourful thing that she’s ever seen: all bright silks and soft curls and sparkling rings that flash in the sunlight, enticing her further and further forward. No, it’s because it’s the first time that she’s seen the sun, full stop.Seven years old and hiding in the comfortable shadows of an unlit alleyway that does very little to block out the sun’s rays. Dressed in her ragged blacks and browns she’s nothing like the people she can see hurrying along the streets, craning her head as far as she can bear. She’s run from Barrett, from her lessons and her familial responsibilities, and no doubt she’s going to pay for it later, but that’s later. For now, she’s transfixed.





	The Pickpocket and the Peacock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flammenkobold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flammenkobold/gifts).

> Written as an extra treat for the 2019 Trick or Treat Exchange.

The first time she sees him is memorable. Not just because he’s by far the most colourful thing that she’s ever seen: all bright silks and soft curls and sparkling rings that flash in the sunlight, enticing her further and further forward. No, it’s because it’s the first time that she’s seen the sun, full stop.

Seven years old and hiding in the comfortable shadows of an unlit alleyway that does very little to block out the sun’s rays. Dressed in her ragged blacks and browns she’s nothing like the people she can see hurrying along the streets, craning her head as far as she can bear. She’s run from Barrett, from her lessons and her familial responsibilities, and no doubt she’s going to pay for it later, but that’s later. For now, she’s transfixed.

He looks up, an elegant curl falling over his light blue eyes, wearing a small smile. He’s scanning the area casually, a smirk at his lips. She can’t help but feel that he’s looking for _her_, that he’s felt her eyes on him.

She jerks back, letting the comforting shadows cradle her and hide her from sight. And then she slips away. Maybe if she’s quick she can get back before she’s missed.

#

She’s a frequent visitor to the alleyway after that. Her uncle’s men are actually pretty incompetent, slow and stupid enough that they aren’t any match for a determined seven-year-old. Pitting them against Sasha Rackett at any age? They don’t stand a chance. 

She sees him again. The peacock. She thinks that he works in one of the big buildings opposite the alleyway, the one with the pillars in white stone and the shining stained-glass windows that she’s always tempted to throw a stone at just so she can collect some of the beautifully coloured glass and bring it home with her.

He has a routine: it’s important to remember routines because if you know when someone’s there then you also know when they’re not. It’s important to remember other people’s routines, but it’s equally important not to have one because then they can find you. She isn’t sure who they are: some strange amalgamation of the Meritocrats in London Above who steal children off the street and force them from their families and the thugs that roam through Other London. She just knows that she doesn’t want to be caught by them.

The peacock enters the large house in the early evenings, rapping softly on the door in a strange series of taps and knocks, then waiting a few minutes before he enters. The door closes behind him and there are the occasional muffled thumps. He stays at the house for hours and hours.

One evening she waits for him to leave. Barrett thinks that she’s scoping out a mark, and she is, just not the one that he anticipated. She doesn’t know why she’s so invested in this peacock, not when she’s seen more people now, more men and women dressed in jewel-tones and draped in glittering stones but there’s something about him. Something drawing her closer.

He’s her first, maybe that’s it. Barrett’s men say that she’ll always remember her first, leaning forward with anticipation in their eyes and cruel smiles on their lips. She avoids them as much as she can.

Maybe it’s the fact that sometimes, if she believes hard enough, she can convince herself that he sees her. That those moments when he stops dead in the middle of the street and scans around him, he’s not just being cautious (at least by London Above standards: in Other London a healthy amount of paranoia is just that, healthy) but that he’s looking for her. Straight at Sasha in particular.

So she waits for him to leave the big house, wrapped in Brock’s borrowed coat (because she is going to give it back, she is) and perched on top of a building for the best view.

She almost misses him cocooned as she is in her warm nest, eyes drooping and limbs heavy with sleep. He’s not dressed in his normal clothes, or maybe he is. She recognises the boldly patterned waistcoat, the elegant coat, the tightly cut trousers. But while earlier they had been in various shades of blue and silver shimmering in the late evening sun, now they’re muted. Blending into the shadows around the house perfectly.

The peacock looks different as well. Tired, maybe. It’s hard to see from so far away, but she thinks there are darker smudges under his eyes, a certain limpness to his usually impeccably curled hair. He’s walking differently as well: every time she’s seen him he’s been prancing- like Brock did a few weeks ago when he managed to grab a couple of eel pies from Gragg’s inn without him noticing. Now though: now he’s sneaking. And she knows sneaking, everyone knows that she’s the best at sneaking so she can say that with certainty.

She frowns down at him and then freezes. Because he looks up, straight at her roof. And he smiles, slow and sure and infuriating and then he raises a hand and snaps a finger. She flinches back, certain that this is how she’s going to die- but there’s no missile heading toward her, no loud noises alerting the surrounding neighbourhood to her presence. Nothing but a single bird, flying toward her and whistling a cheerful tune. She reaches out, startled and, with a cheeky wink, it bursts into a miniature firework display.

When she looks back down, the peacock is gone. He doesn’t return.

#

She’s twelve when she sees him next, short and gangly with her arms sticking out past the sleeves of her coat and a good inch of pale leg visible between the top of her sturdy boots and bottom of her trousers.

She’s on official business hanging around the Meritocratic offices in London with orders to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the drab men and women that trickle in and out of the nondescript building. 

It’s boring as hell and she just knows that Barrett has given her the job as punishment for sneaking off yet again and spending the evening on the rooves of Other London instead of at a ‘party’. She makes a face at the memory: in her experience ‘parties’ mean nothing but itchy, uncomfortable clothes and having to stand still for hours and hours as everyone talks around her. Missing that is well worth a few days watching the movements of a flock of sparrows. 

In any case, she can still have a bit of fun.

Grinning, she darts forward into the crowd, loudly apologising as her hands dart out unnoticed, taking anything that catches her interest. An ugly broach set with a large, red, gem; a chocolate pastry, still warm and flaking in her hands as she stuffs it into her cheeks; a silk purse embroidered with intertwining serpents whose eyes glisten in the sun; a purple scarf, soft as a cloud in her hands; an ostrich feather, the perfect length for tickling; a gaudy signet ring with a stylised dragon-

A hand closes over her thin wrist.

“Ah, ah,” says an amused voice, “I’m afraid I need that.”

She looks up, straight into pale blue eyes. It’s him. The peacock. Dressed in clothes as dark and drab as those surrounding him, the only thing marking him as other a deep green cravat covered with leaves picked out in golden thread.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, “If you don’t let go of me, I’ll-”

“I doubt that you’ll do anything,” the peacock says, “Not if you don’t want to go to prison for a very long time. Which would be a pity, considering.”

Her heart beats faster and faster until it’s pounding in her ears.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she says, and her voice is shrill and so loud that people turn around, staring at them in polite bafflement. Not that they actually move to do anything.

‘Nothing to worry about,” he says, not taking his eyes off her, “Just my nephew deciding to play a little trick on his dear, old uncle.”

She doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything to refute the lie because the alternative is worse. She throws an uneasy glance toward the Meritocratic offices: she hasn’t quite lost her childhood fear. After a few minutes of tense silence, the crowd continues on its way, parting and ebbing around them.

“Hmm,” the peacock says, and he reaches into his pocket. She tenses, ready to wrench her arm away from his grasp and run for it, orders be damned. He notices and, with exaggerated slowness, removes his hand. He’s not carrying a dagger like she though, nor a set of handcuffs. Instead he’s got a small cream box, tied with a red silk ribbon. He drops her hand to open it properly, but she doesn’t notice. Too curious to care.

Revelling in her rapt attention, he removes the ribbon with a showman’s flourish and offers the box to her.

“What is it?” she asks suspiciously.

‘Why don’t you open it and find out?” he suggests, and there it is again. That infuriating smirk. She scowls.

“Maybe I will,” she shoots back and grabs the box, pausing and then lifting the lid off reverentially.

The smell hits her first. Rich and sweet, nothing that she’s ever smelt before. Inside the box are half a dozen objects, round and covered in a fine dusting of white powder.

“What are they?” she says.

“Chocolate bonbons,” the peacock says, “Do you want one?”

She shakes her head immediately. She knows better than to eat strange food: that’s what happened to Ollie down at the docks and everyone knew that he was lucky to have woken up five hours later only missing a few organs.

He frowns and, reaching down, takes one and pops it into his mouth.

“They were meant to be a gift for a, er, friend, but I’m sure that you’ll appreciate them more,” he says, “Perhaps we can trade? The chocolates for some of those items you appropriated.”

She hesitates. If it’s a trade, then that’s different from strange food, right? Her hand inches forward and, watching the peacock’s face for any trace of treachery, she grabs one of the brown balls and shove sit into her mouth.

It explodes across her tongue, so dark and bitter that they’re almost savoury but with a light fruity aftertaste, sort of like the jam that Barrett sometimes has on his bread. But better.

It’s the best thing that she’s ever eaten and she immediately takes another two and eats them before carefully closing the box and saving the rest for Brock.

The peacock is laughing softly: he stops when she glares at him, holding his hands up in mock surrender. He offers her the ribbon and she shakes her head. “You do it,” she says. She doesn’t belong in this world of soft ribbons and fancy chocolates and she knows that no matter how hard she tries, she’ll ruin it. He raises an eyebrow but nonetheless lays the ribbon on top of the proffered box and snaps his fingers. There’s a flash of light and then the ribbon wraps itself around the box, tying itself into a perfect bow.

She nods at him, slipping the box into her pocket, and then takes out the rest of her loot. A deal’s a deal, after all.

“Well,” he says, “You have been busy, haven’t you?”

He takes the purple scarf from her hand, and a part of her mourns the loss of its softness, and wraps it contemplatively around his hand: “I hadn’t realised that Saira was in London,” he says, “It will be good to see her again.”

The rest of the loot he leaves in her hand.

“Honestly,” he says, “If they’re stupid enough not to have enchanted their possessions against theft, then they don’t deserve them back.”

“I can keep it?” Sasha asks.

The peacock grins down at her: “I don’t see why not,” he says, “It might teach my coll- people to take better care of their possessions. You’d really think that they’d have more care than to get pickpocketed like this.”

She bristles instinctively: “Oi!” she says, “I’m the best pickpocket. Ask anyone.”

“I have no doubt of that,” the peacock says, “But perhaps-” he closes her hands around her loot, “You had better find somewhere more profitable next time. And less dangerous. Outside the House of Lords, perhaps?”

“Then…you’re not going to turn me in?”

“Now, why would I do that?”

She shrugs. Doesn’t say anything.

“Barrett says-” she starts then shuts her mouth. No one’s to know about her uncle, because then she’s a liability and liabilities get killed. Or worse. She asked what worse was, once. She didn’t like the answer.

The peacock definitely notices the slip, but he doesn’t say anything. There’s a tightening at his lips though. If she hadn’t spent so much time staring at him, she wouldn’t have been able to tell.

“It would be a pity to stifle such talent,” is all he says. He purses his lips. And then comes to some decision. He slips a ring off his finger, not the heavy signet one that she’d tried to steal, a smaller one made of silver and set with a small emerald, and hands it to her.

“I won’t ask,” he says, “But if you need help-” he nods toward the Meritocratic offices, “Go in there and tell them that Wilde sent you.”

She flinches. Steps back. “You work for them?” she asks. Her voice is plaintive. It’s stupid, but she feels betrayed that her peacock belongs to them. The Meritocrats. That he’s probably been working for them for as long as she’s known them.

“I do,” the peacock, no, Wilde says, “Although I would thank you to keep that to yourself.” His lips twist: “Despite what my colleagues’ fashion sense and propensity to being robbed would have you think, we’re really not all that bad.”

And then he turns and slips away into the crowd. Sasha clutches the ring close to her chest and vows never to use it.

#

That promise lasts five years. Five long, miserable years.

Five years until she finds herself outside of a Meritocratic office in London Above, shivering not from cold but from adrenaline rushing through her body and shouting at her to flee to fight to leave and to never look back.

She ignores it. Her hands throbs in time with her heartbeat, the stub where her finger used to be leaving her unbalanced. She’ll adjust. She will.

She takes a deep breath and, mentally counting her daggers, she strides into the office.

“Excuse me!” the halfling at the door says, “You can’t just-”

She ignores him. She walks straight up to the reception and slams down the ring.

“I need to talk to Wilde,” she says, ignoring the gnome spluttering in front of her and the halfling’s flutters as he tries to get her to sit down, or wait in line, or leave.

“I’m, er,” she says, “I’m afraid that he isn’t here at the moment?”

“I’ll wait,” Sasha says, crossing her arms in front of her, ignoring her instincts screaming at her to _run run run away_ while she still has the chance.

“I don’t know when he’ll he back-”

“I’ll wait,” she repeats, planting herself firmly in case they try to remove her by force. She stays there for the entire two and a half hours it takes him to get back despite regular entreaties to ‘just come back later, _please._’

She’s almost lost her nerve, her trembling more to do with fatigue than adrenaline, when he finally enters in a cloud of perfume and expensive fabric.

“Oh thank Guivre,” the halfling cries, “Oscar, this vagabond came in looking for you and won’t leave. Now look, I understand that your methods are unusual, but I really don’t think-”

Wilde raises a hand, halting the stream of words. “I’ll sort this, Alistaire,” he says. He offers Sasha an elegant hand, as if she were some fancy lady at a ball or something. She ignores it, arms tightly crossed. After a minute or so, he drops his hand. Instead gestures at her to follow him.

She does so and they move through the damp corridors in silence until they stop outside a nondescript door, a large 25 embossed in gold. Wilde removes a key from his pocket and, humming something under his breath that makes the door glow, unlocks it.

”I wasn’t expecting to see you again, little pickpocket,” he says once they’re both inside what’s evidentially his office. He removes his coat and jacket with a groan and, clad in nothing but his waistcoat (this one a burnished copper) and shirtsleeves, sits in the large, uncomfortable chair behind the wooden desk. He leans back, crossing his legs at the ankles and gestures at her to sit down. She ignores him.

She’s hovering uncomfortably on his carpet, aware that she hasn’t changed her clothes in days and that she’s still covered in blood (both her own and others) and sweat from her escape. This- this place reminds her of the house that she was sent to, once she was banished from Other London and sent to Eldarion’s care. All grand furniture and damp walls and a feeling of false grandeur. She doesn’t like it.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t planning on it,” she says retreating in on herself.

Wilde laughs at her and despite the fact it’s as infuriating as she remembers she feels irrationally comforted by it, relaxing incrementally. That despite everything she’s been through, her peacock hasn’t changed.

“Tell me-” he pauses waiting for her to offer her name, but continues smoothly onward when she just blinks at him instead, “What can I do for you?”

She takes a deep breath. Exhales. This, she reminds herself, this is why she came here. Because the Meritocrats are the only ones that have a chance of helping.

“It’s about my cousin,” she starts, “Brock-”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This was inspired by your Sasha & Wilde secret agent AU prompt which I didn't actually get to? This would be the set up for it, where Wilde promises to help Sasha find her cousin and she tags along with him to make sure he's actually keeping his word. This leads to her actually helping out a lot of the times because although Wilde's a good agent he's also stupidly cavalier with his own life and it's not like he can find Brock if he's managed to get himself killed??  
Eventually they become (unofficial) partners and somewhere along the way discover a shared love of puns...  
I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Pay Attention (The Peacock and the Pickpocket)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26763529) by [Elizabeth Culmer (edenfalling)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenfalling/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Culmer)


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